


In Perspective

by ectoBisexual



Category: Tootsie (1982)
Genre: Awkwardness, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Genderfluid Character, Oral Sex, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Transphobia, Relationship Discussions, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectoBisexual/pseuds/ectoBisexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julie still isn't sure how she feels about dating both Dorothy and Michael, or how she feels about them being the same person. Dorothy is determined to persuade her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> thank you very much courtney for commissioning me, and for getting me to watch this excellent movie. i adore writing about genderfluid characters and cute 80s lesbians? absolutely up my alley. i hope this is okay!
> 
> commission info is here:

He’s forgotten about his date with Julie. _Again._

“Michael,” she says over the phone, her voice tinny and far-off and unmistakably _mad,_ “what time is it? This is a serious question. You have a clock in your apartment, right?”

He does have a clock in his apartment; he has a few clocks in his apartment, minus the one Jeff removed from the living area— said it distracted him too much when he was writing, that he was better at time management without it, however that works. Theatre directors, contrary to popular belief, are far more annoying than actors. Actors at least have _logic._

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. Can we reschedule? I could come over later, maybe—give me an hour?”

“What are you _doing?_ ” Julie questions, hissing into the phone in a way that means she must be leaning too close, probably to avoid being heard. Say what you want about the girl, but she has an admirable amount of pride about not causing scenes in public. Keeping up appearances, and all that.

“I’m… uh.” Michael gets kind of distracted by his appearance. He’s _pretty._ The new lipstick shade looks better than he thought it would; much nicer than it had looked on the woman who’d sold it to him, because seriously, had she never heard of colour balancing? Her outfit had been mismatched, too, the kind of ugly yellow-grey pairing that can make beautiful women sink into the background like fading pigment in a painting, which is _no way_ for a lady to be seen—

“Michael!”

“I know I’m late, alright? I’m real sorry, Julie, you know I’ll make it up to you. I can’t tell you what I’m doing.”

“You can’t tell me?” She sounds less frantic now, and actually— understandably— a little put-off.  Because _no,_ he can’t tell her what he’s doing. She was freaked out enough about the whole Dorothy/Michael thing, so much so that she wouldn’t even come inside of his apartment for a whole two months after they started dating, and even after that, it took him months to get her comfortable enough to come into his bedroom. She’s still freaked out about the dresses in his closet, but brushes off a lot of it to the fact that he’s an actor. Besides: she borrows a lot of his clothing nowadays anyway.

“Michael…” she starts slowly. She hesitates, and he can just imagine her biting on her lip, turning it white under the pull of her teeth. “Are you… can I come over?”

“No,” he says quickly, which just serves to make her scoff into the receiver.

“No, I can’t come over? What, do you have another woman over there?”

“You know I don’t, Julie, you’re the only one for me.”

“Well, yes, I know that. So I’m coming over, alright?”

“Julie,” he starts to say, but she’s already hung up. She _knows._ There’s no dancing around the fact. He may as well just sit back and take it like a man.

Which is a funny thing to say when you’re wearing lipstick.

When she gets to his apartment and lets herself in, he’s sitting cross legged on the sofa and dabbing at his cheeks with makeup remover. Julie takes one look at him and hisses a sigh, dropping her purse in the doorway and slamming the door shut behind her.

“You stood me up so you could practise your  _makeup?_ Honestly, Michael.”

“I lost track of time! I didn’t know I’d stood you up, not until you called.”

“That babysitter isn’t cheap,” says Julie, but she crosses the room and sits beside him on the couch. Her head falls to his shoulder, and she sighs again, like she doesn’t know what to do with him, with herself, with the two of them or with any of this. “You ought to pay me back, standing me up like that.”

“I will, I swear,” he vows. His hand hovers awkwardly in the air for a moment, debating between continuing to remove his face or comforting his girlfriend. He eventually concedes to the latter, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and revelling in the way she sinks into him, burrowing her face in his neck.

“…Are you wearing perfume?”

“Chanel,” he answers. She whacks him in the shoulder _hard._

“Damn you, Michael Dorsey. I thought I looked really nice tonight, y’know? And you stood me up. So you could… you know, cross-dress, alone in your apartment by yourself— where’s Jeff, anyway? Since he’s obviously not here to knock some sense into you.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Michael promises, about two steps away from straight out grovelling for her forgiveness. “Honest, Julie. I really am sorry.”

She just sighs again, her breath stirring the bare skin of his arm. It’s soft, just like everything else about her; he realises suddenly in a fit of regret how much he misses her, and how important their date was tonight. He’ll pay the babysitter. Then he’ll take her out for lobster or something equally ostentatious and obscene.

“Why, Michael?”

“Why did I stand you up? I told you, I really wasn’t keeping track of the time—” 

“No, I mean…” she pulls her bottom lip in again, worrying it between her teeth. She’s got that little crease between her brows that appears when she’s really bothered about something. “I mean, why… the cross-dressing? You haven’t _stopped._ You keep telling me you’re done, and then I find you like this, putting makeup on in your apartment like it’s some dirty little secret. Talk to me, Michael.”

He moves his fingers around a little, well aware that they’re shaking. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I… well.” He doesn’t know what to say. How to explain it to her. She was really freaked out when she found out who he was behind all the makeup: how could she possibly understand _now?_

“Michael,” she says gently, placing a hand on the back of his wrist. His skin burns a little where she touches, that warm and coaxing thing that always reminds him why he’s with her in the first place; because it’s _right._ He loves Julie; he can handle braving it enough to tell her the truth, just like she can brave taking the truth.

“It’s not as simple as cross-dressing. I feel like a _woman_ when I’m dressed as Dorothy, not like I’m pretending. And when I’m not, and I want to… well, I feel like I should. It’s not like putting on a costume. Sometimes it’s like putting on a whole other skin.”

“I don’t understand,” Julie admits. The crease between her brows is back. Her nails scratch lightly at the back of his hand, and he can read her fear, the trepidation there. “You’re not a woman. You’re Michael.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. Sometimes I am Michael, sure. But when I’m Dorothy, I’m Dorothy. I feel like a real woman, not like a man pretending to be a woman. I _like_ it. It’s natural, y’know?”

“But you’re deceiving people, Michael! What’s natural about that?”

“I’m not,” he presses, feeling vehement of the fact now. “I’m really not. Look: sometimes I’m a man, and sometimes I’m a woman. To me, it’s as simple as that.”

“But…” Julie struggles to get her words out, really fidgeting now. “Let me get this straight. When you’re Dorothy, you’re a woman. And when you’re Michael, you’re a man?”

“Right!”

“So you’re… both. But not at the same time?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, feeling his shoulders sag with relief. “Exactly.”

Julie doesn’t speak for a while. They’ve been seeing each other seven months now, and he’s pretty good at reading her; the way her eyes shift, the way her brows draw together, the strict line of her mouth and the way it moves when she’s worrying herself sick thinking about something. He places a hand on her shoulder and tries to lull some acceptance into her.

“I know it’s confusing. Hell, I’m confused myself, half the time. Maybe it’s because I’m an actor, and we’re just naturally weirder that way. We’re not— I’m not— _right_ , maybe. All I know is it _feels_ right, and I don’t wanna stop being who I am. But I don’t wanna lose you, either. So I need to be honest with you about all this.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly. She looks up at him through her lashes. “For being honest with me.”

Blood rushes to his cheeks, unprompted, at her sincerity. “You’re welcome.”

The tiniest of smiles appears on her lips. She flushes when she catches him _noticing,_ and shrugs him off playfully, before coming back and resting her head on his shoulder again. “I think I understand. It’s still strange to me, but I understand. I’ve really got to get home to Amy— I still don’t forgive you for standing me up, I don’t care what the reason was. I’ll call, alright?”

“Sure,” he says, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. He’ll never get over the way her eyes light up like she’s full of stars.

.

She doesn’t call. Instead, she shows up unannounced the very next day at 8 am, wielding a stroller and a very determined pair of kitten heels.

“Get your ass out of those flannel pajama pants,” she announces, beaming at his half-asleep form in the doorway. “I’m taking you out.”

“Taking me… out?” For a second, he wonders if she means by way of an assassin. That would be just his luck. He was up late taming the unmanageable curls on his wig. There’s still a lot of kink to them, despite the wig’s unseemly age. Julie continues to beam at him from the doorway, rocking the stroller a little.

“Well, hurry up. Amy won’t behave forever, y’know, and I really wanna have her back at home and down for a nap by noon.”

Michael dresses in a hurry, without bothering to spare his reflection a second glance in the mirror. He’s probably still got a little kohl stained around his eyes from last night, but to anyone else the remnants of makeup will simply look like the physique of an unslept actor, and not the mark of a secret woman. He hesitates to ask Julie where they’re going, mainly because she seems so excited about keeping it a surprise.

When he finally figures it out, they’re standing in front of the store, Amy cooing gently from her stroller.

“A wig store,” he says, not quite believing it.

Julie’s grin is the size of the city skyline. “Yep! It’s a good surprise, right? I figured I’d make it up to you. I was pretty…” she bites on her lip again, considering her words carefully, “rude and close-minded last night. I couldn’t sleep; I was sick with it. So I got up, I looked in the mirror, and I told myself: you listen here, Julie Nichols. You love this man, and if he also happens to be a woman, then so be it: you love this woman, too. And if he, or she, wants to wear pretty dresses and hair, then it’s your duty as a loving, devoted girlfriend to help in any which way possible.”

“Julie,” Michael says, still unsure.

She grips his shoulder and gives him a comforting squeeze. “I mean it, Michael. I want to be supportive of this. So, come on. I’m buying you a new wig.”

Inside is like a wonderland of hair possibilities. Michael isn’t shy of the way his eyes scan over the room in awe, enthralled beyond belief with the myriad of options. There are long, blonde numbers he can imagine styling into a fashionable braid or a perm; no, that wouldn’t suit Dorothy, she’s more of a lady than that. There’s a short, spiky black number that just _screams_ rebellious woman. He has to resist the urge to reach out with his hand and touch them all, drooling at the quality look of the textures.

A store clerk stops in front of them before they can make their way through the first isle. “May I help you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Julie boasts confidently, placing both hands on her hips. A swell of pride emerges in Michael’s chest; that’s his girl. “My partner here is an actor, and as such he requires a decent wig for a _female_ character he’s playing. We were thinking a mousy brown, and something in the way of a bob, perhaps.”

Michael has to resist the urge to _swoon_ at her. His girlfriend, spouting fashion advice or hair terminology: better to him than any dirty talk ever could be.

“Certainly,” says the man, offering Michael a plastic smile. “Sir, I could not recommend anything better than our wigs for a stage show. Really, I admire the arts. You’ll be wanting something like this, I imagine.”

He reaches up and removes one of the higher wigs, a voluminous one with ridiculously styled curls. Michael makes a face.

“Do you have anything different? Less… obnoxious, maybe.”

“Well, certainly,” says the store clerk, though not without a bite of irritation. Michael and Julie follow him into the next isle, where he produces a shorter wig; this one is a wild perm, not the kind of daytime look he’d ever willingly choose.

“It’s still kind of…”

“The curls, and the shape, here,” explains the store clerk, gesturing fervently, “just _scream_ womanhood, don’t they? They’ll really stand out on stage.”

“Well, sure,” Michael tries. “But isn’t it a little… I mean, could you possibly recommend something that’s a little more…”

“A little more _womanly?_ ” Julie suggests, drawing the store clerk’s attention back on her, finally. She looks kind of irritated now, and is rocking Amy’s stroller with some vigour. “These are all great, but do any of them look like anything a real woman would wear?”

“Yeah,” says Michael, snapping his fingers excitedly. “Yeah, that’s it. Do you have something softer? We were gonna go with a much softer look.”

“Softer,” says the store clerk, considering. “Well… of course, but with all due respect: why would you want something _softer?_ It would blend in far too well with your facial structure, considering it is rather— er, delicate, especially with the height.” He says it like he’s afraid it will come out like an insult. Michael raises an eyebrow. “What I’m trying to say is, you want to look like a gal on stage, don’t you? It’s not like you’ll be fooling anyone, being a man and all. A softer wig will only make you look like a _woman_ on the streets, blending in with every other _real_ woman! It is acting, after all.”

 _Acting,_ Michael thinks. _If only you knew the half of it._

“Listen,” Julie says sharply, stepping forward with her hands on her hips; the sudden jolt in her tone causes both Michael and the store clerk to look over, where her chin is pointed firmly up. “If my boyfriend says he wants the wig to look _soft,_ then damn it, you’re going to get him a wig that looks soft!”

The store clerk is quiet. He looks like he wasn’t expecting a woman of Julie’s stature and appearance to have such a mouth on her, letalone to be able to project her volume in a way that claims attention, that says _I’m in charge, so listen up._ Michael’s chest tightens with affection for her. He can’t believe that just a year ago she was half-afraid to speak back to a man who she knew was cheating on her; now she doesn’t take any kind of disrespect from anyone.

The store clerk goes to get Michael’s wig. After some time debating, he leaves the store with an almost strawberry blonde coloured bob, smooth and fluffy and just perfect. He holds Julie’s hand the whole way home, their purchase in the bag between them.

.

A week later, it becomes apparent to Michael that the reason Julie keeps cancelling on him is because she’s afraid to be seen with Dorothy in public.

“Okay,” she says, showing up unannounced at Julie’s apartment and startling her half to death from the sofa she’s seated on. “What’s the deal? You’re obviously not sick.”

“Michael— Dorothy,” she stumbles, standing up like she needs to address Dorothy’s presence in the room. “You’re—oh, my. Well, the new wig looks nice, doesn’t it?”

“Sit back down,” she says, shaking her head with some disdain. “Honestly, Julie. You look frightened to death of me.”

Julie sits down. She doesn’t correct Dorothy’s statement, folding her hands in her lap and looking pointedly down. Dorothy sits beside her on the sofa and doesn’t miss the way she tenses up.

“So what’s the deal?” she presses, noting the way Julie's face screws up as her tone drops back to its normal low pitch. “You’re embarrassed of me, right? You may as well say it.”

“I’m not _embarrassed,_ ” Julie scoffs, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. She braves a look at Dorothy, then, really looks at her, and something in her features softens. She looks away again. “It’s more complicated than that. I’m not… well, you know, like that _._ ”

“Like what?” Dorothy presses, raising an eyebrow.

“Like _that._ ”

“Oh,” she says, enlightened. “That.”

“Gay, Dorothy! I’m not a lesbian!”

Dorothy is genuinely taken aback for a moment, and resists the urge to physically reel on the couch. Slowly, gradually, she starts to register what Julie is trying to say to her. “Your problem is that you’re not… a lesbian?”

“Yes! Didn’t I make that obvious?”

Dorothy’s expression has fallen to a frown. “Well, I know you’re not a lesbian, Jules. I think I would have noticed at some point when we were—”

“You’re really getting on my nerves right now, Dorothy Michaels!”

Dorothy can’t help the smile that rises to her face. She moves closer to Julie, ignoring the way she tenses. “You’re not a lesbian. Not fully, anyway, since you’re dating Michael. If you were a lesbian, you wouldn’t be dating a man, right?”

“But you’re the same person!” Julie exclaims, throwing her hands up. “And if _Dorothy’s_ a lesbian—”

This time it’s Dorothy’s turn to go red in the face. “Dorothy’s not a lesbian!”

Julie goes silent for a moment, considering. She’s calm again when she speaks, glancing at Dorothy out of the corner of her eye.

“Well, do you like men, Michael?”

“No, of course not. I like you, don’t I?”

“And you say you’re a woman, right? Like right now, when you’re Dorothy?”

Dorothy rolls her eyes. “Of course! We’ve been over this!”

Julie jabs her in the chest. “Would Dorothy date men? The real Dorothy, not some idea you have of her—of _yourself_ —in your head, that says you could only do what you idealise for yourself, as if you’re some _character_ in a play. Do you want to go on dates with men, sleep with them, just because you’re Dorothy?”

Dorothy is uncomfortable now. She can’t imagine ever going on a date with a man. She _likes_ men, sure, but the way you like cats, or other people just because they happen to be people like you. But to kiss them? To touch them? To be tender with them the way she’s tender with Julie, to look at them the way she looks at women, with such adoration and passion and _interest._ “Well, no,” she admits. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Julie leans back, smug. “Then she’s a lesbian. _You’re_ a lesbian! And that makes me, well—”

“I don’t know what that makes you, Julie, but you’re in a relationship with _me._ I’m not always a woman, so that must mean you like both genders. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Julie makes a face like she’s never thought about it that way before. “I guess so,” she admits, sounding full of wonder herself. Amy starts to cry in the other room, and she stands to go fetch her, returning with a squirming, mumbling baby in her arms, rocking her back to sleep. “I just…” she begins, lowering herself back to the sofa. “It’s just so weird to me…”

“What is?” Dorothy presses, leaning forward to place a hand on Julie’s knee. She sighs.

“This. Us. Dating a woman. I’ve never… _been_ with one.”

“Well,” says Dorothy, “what is it about being with a woman that bothers you?”

“I don’t know,” Julie says, rocking Amy with a little more passion. “Really, I don’t. It’s just the way I’ve been brought up, Dottie—”

“I can understand that, Julie, I can. But when I was Dorothy… before you knew that _Michael_ and _Dorothy_ were the same person, you can’t tell me you didn’t think about it.”

Julie is silent. Amy continues to coo gently in her arms, and Dorothy resists the urge to reach out and take the baby.

“Julie.”

“I thought about it, alright? I thought about it a lot.”

“You thought about having feelings for me.”

Julie scowls. “For Dorothy. For you— yes, sure, whatever. But it seemed so wrong!”

“Why?” Dorothy presses. Amy starts to work her way up to a cry again, so Dorothy reaches forward and takes the baby, bringing her close to her chest and bouncing her gently. “Why did it seem so wrong?”

“It just did!” Julie cries, bringing her hands to her face to paw at it miserably. “I’d never pictured myself with a woman before. You just seemed so—so _soft,_ and it was so different, I didn’t know if I could—it doesn’t matter, now. I did it anyway, didn’t I?”

Dorothy keeps looking at her. She can’t look away. “Well, not really.”

“Don’t be stupid, Dorothy, we’ve slept together.”

“No, we’ve slept together when I was _Michael._ What about being Dorothy, huh? I love you just as much when I’m a woman.”

Julie shuts her eyes, and Dorothy doesn’t miss the way she shivers, reaching up to clutch her elbows, hugging her arms in close to her body like she’s afraid.

“I don’t know…” she says, trailing off.

Dorothy stands from the sofa, handing back the baby and brushing off her skirt. “I won’t push it. Just think about it, will you? I’m going out tomorrow night and I’m going to treat myself to a nice dinner. As _Dorothy._ If you want to come, you’re welcome to join me.”

Julie looks helpless. “What about Amy?”

 _She’s considering it,_ Dorothy thinks, biting back on a grin. She huffs, trying to establish herself as a firm, convicted woman. “Well, if you wanted to come, I could just pay for a babysitter, couldn’t I? Goodnight, Julie.”

She almost wants Julie to tell her to wait, or to stop, or something of that fashion, just so that she can cry “I said goodnight!” and earn a laugh. Anything to wipe that look of _pain_ from Julie’s face, that debating look she wears when she can’t make up her mind about something she thinks is really important. But she doesn’t tell Dorothy to wait. Her shoulders slump back to their usual gait, poised and relaxed at the same time, and gently, glancing up through her lashes, she says, “Goodnight, Dorothy.”

.

Julie calls the next night to say she’s gotten a babysitter. Michael tries not to be smug about the call, lounged back and relaxed against the headboard of his bed with a play script.

He tries to play coy, questioning Julie as to what she might think about doing with her evening, but she just tells him in a curt, strict voice that he is to be ready in no less than one hour, and that she’ll meet him out the front of his apartment complex.

Becoming Dorothy is always the best part of his day. It’s like shrugging off a jacket; the feeling of femininity settling on her shoulders is a welcomed one, like ancestral calling in her bones. The new wig is a lot more versatile than the other, and she styles it fashionably, painting her lips with a baby pink colour that brings out the flush of her cheeks.

She really is a pretty girl, she thinks, blowing a kiss at the mirror. Julie’s pretty lucky to be able to take such a bombshell out to dinner.

Julie shows up dressed in a modest black peacoat and throws glances over her shoulders like they’re about to be apprehended by the Secret Lesbian police. Dorothy loops their arms together and ignores the way Julie jumps a mile into the air, gesturing to the hall and putting on her best dulcet, sugar-high pitched voice. “Shall we, darling?”

“We shall,” Julie grits back. She’s putting a lot of effort into this, that’s for sure. She’s masking her discomfort behind a face full of makeup and a strong expression. Dorothy’s crazy for this girl.

When they get to the restaurant, Julie looks like she wants to run, ducking her head behind her hand and throwing glances now and then at the bathrooms like she might go and escape through a window or something. Dorothy watches her with muted amusement from behind her fist. When she nudges her foot forward to stroke Julie’s leg under the table, she jumps.

“You look a little high strung, darling, why don’t you order yourself a red wine?”

Julie is glaring like no one’s business. “Knock it off, Dorothy. I’m nervous enough.”

“Nervous,” Dorothy scoffs, shaking her head. She glances up through her lashes at Julie, not missing the way her cheeks flush. “You don’t need to be nervous, sweetheart. You’re here with me.”

Their waiter arrives at the table to ask them if they’re ready to order. Dorothy gives him her most charming smile, ordering for the two of them with practised grace and confidence. She doesn’t miss the way the waiter’s eyes stray to the table, where Dorothy has a hand placed affectionately on Julie’s wrist, but she does throw an even sharper smile at him when he looks back up. He goes off to get their drinks like he’s running from a fire.

“Everyone is staring at us,” Julie huffs, putting her head in her hands. “Why are they staring? I hate this.”

“You hate being out with me?” Dorothy questions, raising an eyebrow. Julie becomes flustered again.

“No! You know what I mean. Oh— I’m trying, I swear I am. Don’t be hard on me, Dorothy.”

The waiter returns with a bottle of wine, pouring it without meeting either of their eyes. Dorothy shifts closer to Julie so that she can intertwine their legs.

“Relax,” she whispers, hot and low in Julie’s ear. “No one’s gonna say anything. And if they do, I’ll kick their ass.”

Julie’s lips twitch in and out of a smile, unable to hide her amusement. It makes Dorothy’s chest light up.

It becomes apparent to her in the next second that their waiter isn’t the only one looking at the close way they’re seated together. She catches the eye of a man one table over, who is openly gawking, and suddenly, all the anger that has been sitting in her chest all week springs forth.

“That is _rude,_ young man,” she snaps, causing him to jump visibly in his seat. “You can fuck right off now, you understand? Haven’t you ever seen two ladies enjoy a nice meal together before?”

Julie starts laughing. And laughing. She hunches forward on the table, feverishly trying to cover her mouth with her hands in an attempt to stop the laughter from pitching all the way across the restaurant, it’s so loud and hysteric. Dorothy watches on in horror, unsure if she should be laughing along or calling a psychiatrist, when Julie suddenly lifts her head again, and kisses Dorothy flush on the mouth.

“You were right,” she laughs, looking overjoyed and free and just so _Julie_ that Dorothy doesn’t know what to do with herself. “God, what was I thinking? I don’t give half a damn what people think about me. And so what if they stare? I have a tough girlfriend to back me up. Why, I don’t doubt you could kick the shit out of someone, even in those shoes.”

Dorothy beams. She’s never been so in love before in her life.

Julie laughs again, covering her mouth like she’s surprised at herself. “I can’t believe I just said ‘girlfriend’. It’s still so _weird._ But it’s not…” she trails off for a moment, smiling adoringly at Dorothy as she raises a hand to cup her cheek. “It’s not all that bad, is it?”

“No,” Dorothy says, eyes flitting nervously around the restaurant, where other curious patrons have started to glance their way, “it’s not, but Julie—” She thwarts her attempt at another kiss, turning her face so it lands square on her cheek, where Julie giggles into the skin. “Julie, really. I didn’t mean we should _make love_ in the middle of the restaurant.”

“Oh,” she says, leaning away with a devilish grin and a dark look in her eyes that makes Dorothy’s stomach sink. “You’re right. We should wait until we get home for that, right?”

Dorothy eats her dinner so fast her stomach hurts.

.

The second they walk through the door to Dorothy’s apartment she has Julie up against the wall, hitching her skirt up at the side to grab at her thigh like she’s drowning and meeting her mouth in a wet, open kiss.

Julie giggles, leaning back against the wall so she can tip her head up to the ceiling and laugh. Dorothy watches through lowered lashes, out of her mind with love for this girl. She takes the opportunity to trail kisses up Julie’s exposed throat, revelling in a deep, insanely turned on way when Julie stops laughing to gasp gentle noises against the open apartment air.

“I can’t believe,” she says between kisses, “that— you— I— I love you, Dorothy. God, I love you. And I love that you’re a _woman_ just as much as I love that you’re a man!” Julie giggles furiously at the revelation, tipping her head back again.

Being inside of her is always like a dream. Dorothy squeezes her eyes shut and tips her head forward against Julie’s shoulder and tells herself to _get it together._ She’s got both hands on Julie’s hips and her mouth working up the underside of Julie’s chin and she’s got Julie, moaning and mewling and letting out little airy, desperate noises into her ear, like she can’t believe what she’s feeling, every time. “God,” she gasps, tightening up around Dorothy in a way that makes her shut her eyes around a particularly warbling groan, and, “God,” again, gasped out like a hymn, a prayer. “Dorothy, I— that’s so good, _please_ don’t stop— _oh_ —”

Dorothy groans again and picks up the speed, trying not to stutter in the rhythm she’s built for the both of them, rocking into Julie in time with the motions of her hand, caught between their bodies and getting Julie off in a slow-burning way that makes her every breath a gasp or a moan, _right in Dorothy’s ear._ Her legs tighten up around Dorothy’s hips and she murmurs her name when she comes, just like that, making a face that Dorothy is never quite going to get out of her head.

Going down on Julie as a woman is a whole other experience in and of itself. It’s a little magical, oral sex, Dorothy has always thought. She loves the way girls feel down there, all soft and pliable and _hot,_ warm and wet and sweet under her tongue _;_ she loves the way they taste, and the way they sound. Julie’s thighs tighten like a vice around Dorothy’s head, blocking her ears to some of the louder, shakier moans she’s letting out, forced from her lungs with the rise and fall of her chest, like the moans are replacing her breathing. Dorothy loves the way her face looks, loves the way she tips back her head and scrabbles at Dorothy’s, pulling on her hair; the wig is off, now, but the makeup remains intact, and when she looks down, she’s smeared the last of her lipstick all over Julie’s thighs.

Those same thighs shake and she sobs Dorothy’s name when she comes like she is saying something precious. Dorothy waits down there, licking her through it, letting her ride it out on Dorothy’s tongue. Then she crawls back up the length of Julie’s body, opening her arms in an invitation.

Julie collapses on Dorothy’s chest with a huff and stretches out her legs like a satisfied cat.

“I always,” she says slowly, “forget how good you are at that.”

“I enjoy doing it,” Dorothy says sweetly, in that high, clipped voice of hers. Julie tilts her head up to send Dorothy a smile.

“It was different this time. The sex, I mean. Something about doing it this time, and knowing you’re a woman… that was amazing, Dorothy.”

Dorothy feels herself flush, and tries to hide the smug grin in Julie’s hair. “You weren’t as shy this time, I think. It was nice.”

“You think I’m shy?” Julie laughs, and when Dorothy says nothing, she pokes her in the side hard, doing it again and laughing brilliantly when Dorothy curls up and tries to thwart the tickling. “Well _I_ think _you’re_ bossy! I’ve got a bossy girlfriend in bed, and a boyfriend who can’t get enough of me! How’s that!”

The two of them laugh like a pair of kids, Dorothy trying to kick Julie off as she attacks at her again with her fingers, jabbing into Dorothy’s soft sides. She eventually gives in with a huff and rests her cheek against Dorothy’s stomach, gazing up at her through sweetly lowered lashes, smiling fondly.

“Tell me when you think you can get it up again, and I’ll go down on you, this time,” she teases, grinning with all of her teeth. Dorothy nudges her in the head with a knee.

“That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

“Some _lady_ you are, ravishing me.”

“As if you don’t _love_ to be ravished.”

Julie starts to laugh, and then out of nowhere her eyes widen, and she shoots up in bed in a panic.

“Oh my God!” she yells.

“What?” Dorothy scrambles to get up after her, following her in her manic pursuit around the room to find all of her discarded clothes. “What, Julie, what is it?”

“ _Amy!_ ” she shrieks, struggling to get her bra done up in her rush. “She’s— I left her with the babysitter! Oh, what time is it? I was meant to be home more than an hour ago.”

“Slow down,” Dorothy says, already going for the wig on her bedside table, wiping away at her clumpy lashes. “I’ll drive you, slow down a minute. Your dress is in the living room, where I took it off.”

Julie bites her nails the whole drive over, muttering about how she’s a terrible mother and she’s going to Hell and Amy will never forgive her, even if Amy is a baby and there’s no way she’ll remember this when she’s older. Saying as much doesn’t cause Julie to calm down in the least; she just shoots a fervid, angry glare Dorothy’s way. Dorothy turns back to the road and says nothing for the rest of the drive.

By the time they get up there the babysitter is waiting by the door, and she throws a fit when she sees the two of them.

“You are _ninety minutes late,_ ” the young woman roars. Dorothy notices immediately that her hair is wild, that there are smears of… _something_ on her clothing. Then she takes in the whole apartment. It’s essentially trashed. “I cannot handle it, I just cannot handle it,” the girl is muttering, sweeping on her coat and ripping the cash from Julie’s hand. “Your little girl is a _devil._ Goodnight, to the both of you.”

The apartment door slams on her way out. Slowly, Julie and Dorothy both turn to the rest of the apartment.

There is baby food splattered all over the kitchen like it’s been through a hurricane. Amy’s toys are discarded in a horror-movie trail towards her bedroom, where she is sitting up in bed and wailing like she’s mortally wounded. Dorothy lifts her out of the crib, cooing to calm her down, but has to lift the baby away again when she registers the sticky substance spilled all down her front.

“I’m a terrible mother,” Julie says to herself, in horror.

“You’re not a terrible mother,” Dorothy reassures her, rocking the crying infant. “She’s a handful, that’s all.”

Julie whips her head around, eyes blazing. “Was she ever this much of a handful with you? I’ve left you with her a handful of times, Dorothy.”

Dorothy makes a face, unable to lie. “Well, yes, she was pretty terrible.”

Julie huffs, looking embarrassed. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me? Oh, I’m never going to be able to hire that babysitter again, am I?”

“Maybe not, but look on the bright side: at least no one got hurt.” Julie doesn’t find the joke very funny, and Dorothy backtracks, shooting her a sheepish grin. “I never told you because I wanted to impress you. I thought you’d like me if you thought I was good with children, you know? It’s not very ladylike not to be good with children.”

Julie laughs into the back of her hand, sounding tired and over it. “Well, that’s that, I guess.” She looks around the apartment with her hands on her hips, huffing a sigh. “Look at this mess. Thank you for driving me over, Dorothy, you really didn’t have to. I’ll call you in the morning, alright?”

“Nonsense, are you going to clean this mess up all by yourself? Give me Amy. You start on the kitchen, and I’ll give her a bath.”

It takes the best part of two hours to get all the baby food out of the carpet and the toys back where they belong, and Amy hardly cooperates to a bath, splashing Dorothy in the face with water so that she reels back and has to huff at the child until she complies.

Afterwards they put her down in her crib and stand together, watching her sleep like two proud moms.

“You know, I’m glad Amy has you in her life, too,” Julie says, leaning her head against Dorothy’s shoulder. “She has twice the love that way. God knows her daddy’s never gonna be around.”

“Who says she needs a daddy?” Dorothy huffs. “I’m right here.”

“Yes, you are,” Julie says, smiling teasingly. “Mommy.”

“I can’t believe this. I never thought I’d have children, if I’m being honest.”

“Well, we’re just both glad to have you in our lives,” she says, and the two of them kiss sweetly over the cot, happy and content.

It’s not the worst date night Dorothy has ever had.

 


End file.
